These Pieces Of My Life
by Spooky Bibi
Summary: Santana flees Glee practice after Rachel's comments. Sam insists on finding out why they hurt her so much. In the process, both will find unexpected solace. AU after Silly Love Songs, although with many canon elements.
1. Claustrophobic Confrontation

**A/N: I kind of like the idea of Sam with Santana, even if it was short-lived on the show. This can be read with a romantic angle or a friendly one, depending on your mood! I take the opportunity to say that I don't own Glee (duh!) and that I don't condone underage drinking (there will be some in a later chapter).**

**This takes place during Silly Love Songs, although I messed around with the timeline a bit. POV will shift between Santana's and Sam's. This one is Santana's.**

**Enjoyed it or not, a review or criticism would be most appreciated!**

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><p>A long, unflinching stare. Her trademark, but it's not a scared freshman in front of her this time. Rather, just her reflection. Carefully, she details the extent of her hallway meltdown.<p>

Ponytail is still holding on, hair still pulled back tight and sleek. Skin is a mess, all red and blotchy but it's manageable. She takes care of it with some gentle dabs of a wet towel. Eyes are going to be a problem. She delicately wipes off the remnants of her mascara. The brown orbs have a softer appearance once they're free of the black enhancement. Letting the towel drop on the floor, she rests her palms on the smooth and cold porcelain of the sink, gliding them as she leans forward.

"Damn it." she whispers, noticing how bloodshot one of her best features is. No way to correct it on time for next period and there's no point in thinking she can skip that one too, one is trouble enough. Cutting homeroom is one thing, it doesn't matter, it's merely banal. Cutting two periods in a row is another, it invites questions.

Anyway, she can't be seen like this. Nobody but Brittany can witness her being fragile. She sighs loudly and tilts her head back, closing her eyes. Hopefully, a few minutes of shut-eye will help.

The door emits its usual squeaky sound, making Santana jump. "Fuck, not now!" she curses through gritted teeth. Either a random girl chose the worst time to need to pee or Brittany ignored her request and came looking for her, again. The latter is more likely. Who would come here, the least popular bathroom (far end of the basement, cold and damp), when no classroom is nearby? She takes a deep breath, prepping for another speech about _how good a friend you are Brit, but I can deal with it alone, etc._ Said breath gets caught in her throat when she turns around. A normal reaction to a most abnormal sight.

"Sam? What the hell you doin' here?" she asks in disbelief.

His eyes widen as he takes in her flushed face and trembling form. He opens his ridiculously large mouth but she doesn't let him answer.

"You know what? Don't bother. You're not a girl or Kurt, so you have no right to be here. Get out, now!" she orders, swatting the air emphatically.

"Then throw me out." he states. His calmness takes her by surprise. A few seconds pass, during which they size each other up in silence. Santana reluctantly concedes. You can't move a stump, and that's what she has in front of her. A Californian, naive stump.

"Whatever…" she slams, returning her attention to fixing her make-up. "You do what you want Golden, I don't care." Lightly sliding her index under her puffy lower eyelids, she smoothes the concealer in place. The fair-haired boy watches her intently. Not that she wants to fixate on him but he's kind of hard to miss, arms crossed, stare locked on her, all of this uncomfortably visible to her in the large mirror.

"Don't you have somethin' better to do, I dunno, following Quinn like a panting Labrador or somethin'?" she says, vigorously running her powder brush all over her face.

"Nope." he replies smugly. He untangles his arms and raises his hands in defense. "What do you think, that I came here to happily pass the time? I may be dumb, I know you think I am, but I have a life."

"Well, you're right, you're dumb. Fine, I'll ask again. If you do have a life, then what are you doin' here?" she says, spinning on her heels to face him. Because talking to a reflection is tiresome.

"You looked like you could use a friend. What after all the stuff the girls threw at you." he explains. He takes a step forward, she tries to step back but her ass meets the sink and she feels trapped.

"And you should care why? You and I have no business together. I have Britt and if I decide I don't need her, then I don't need nobody. Particularly a dork like you." Her voice rises in spite of her, blood ruches to her cheek. _Calm down,_ she tells herself. _You're taking this way too much at heart_.

He smiles, that enormous, infuriating smile. "You don't ever get tired of it?"

"Tired of what?"

"Always being defensive like that. Look, I was, still am actually, trying to be nice. What harm can it do, to just let yourself go for once?" His voice trails off, barely audible by the end.

"You don't know what you're talking about, boy." She steps forward, roughly pushing the young man aside on her way out. A hand gripping her forearm stops her from exiting the bathroom and evading Sam's inquisition. He pulls her back inside without ceremony, eliciting a "_Hey_!" of protest from the former cheerleader. Her back lands against the tiled walls, enough to shock her, not hard enough to really hurt though.

"Then explain it to me!" he yells. He finally releases her and run his hands through his thick hair nervously. She sends him her most icy glare and a smirk spreads across her lips when she sees the blush it provokes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rough with you." He mutters. He bounces his weight from one foot to the other. She observes the movement while rubbing the shoulder that sustained most of the impact.

"If you're debating whether or not you should stay, don't." she starts, a little softer. "I swear, do I have to ask you in Na'vi to make you leave me alone?"

"You're a real piece of work Santana Lopez, you know that?" he responds swiftly.

"The reason people love me!"

"No, they don't." he shoots back. "Rachel, well, the entire Glee club just told you." His tone grows serious. "Are you on top at this school? Sure. Because of standards and clans, you get to rule over everyone. Doesn't mean they like you."

There's pity in his big doe-like eyes, which lessen the harshness of the words spoken. She can't have any of it.

"First of all, yes, people like me, Brit is like the best BFF and she sticks by me, come whatever. And I couldn't care less what a couple of Glee club losers like Berry think of me. Second, you said you came here as a friend and now you tell me I'm unfriendable? What, are you fucking bipolar?"

"No, I-"

"Fuck you, Evans! You don't get to come in here and insult me to my face, you jerk!"

She shoves him once more; this time so hard the rebound makes her take a few steps back. She keeps retreating until she reaches the end of the bathroom. Crossing her arms over her chest in a protective hug, she slides down the wall in a squatting position.

"For the last time, go." she murmurs, screwing her eyes shut. _Go away Go away Go away_… she silently wills.

"OK, keep pretending."

Though her eyes remain closed, she can sense him looming over her crouched form. 10 seconds of silence, maybe less. After which she hears the hoped creak of the door. Tentatively, her eyelids flutter open. She half-expects Sam to still be standing near, having played her. But all she can see is an empty cold place, and a folded piece of paper on the floor.

A scribbled number, with a single phrase: "_Whenever you're ready_."


	2. First Attempt, First Cut

**A/N: We're skipping most of the Quinn/Finn drama here, although it'll play a part later on. This chapter is dedicated to Lolee Ann, because she's the best! And because nobody ever responded to review whoring in a more obliging manner!**

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><p>She manages to get through the rest of the day, somehow without damage. Brittany sends her a quizzical look when she arrives late in History, she replies with a big, fake smile that does the job, apparently. No questions, from her or anybody else.<p>

Sam is in her last class of the day and she finds herself staring at him for most of it. He never so much as glances towards her and it irks her. _Way to show you care, fish-face!_ A nagging voice in her head tells her she asked for it and she can't help but agreeing with it. The only hint of peace that relieves her mind comes from the final bell of the day, finally letting her run away.

The Lopez residence presides over the smaller homes of Fairview Avenue, standing alone at the end of it. An impressive example of modern architecture, it features large panels of glass intersected with wood and stone in an unexpected pattern. It could make a welcoming home, depending on the residents of course. With Santana's family inhabiting it, it's not the case. When she parks her car in the driveway, the familiar surge of cold fills her at the sight of the darkened windows. Her "I'm home!" reverberates on the walls of the hallway, unacknowledged. She sighs and wonders for the umpteenth time why she still says it. The day somebody greets her back, she might actually faint from surprise.

Bag drops on the doormat, followed by her shoes. Maid will take care of them, one of the upside of a privileged lifestyle. She continues shedding her clothes as she walks up the stairs and walks down the carpeted hallway. Out of habit, her steps slow down and her hand stretches to the wall. Fingertips graze the flowered wallpaper and linger on the raised "C" adorning the door next to hers. She resumes her pace and her blouse and skirt fall on the floor as she makes her way to her bedroom. She enters the large room with a sigh, stopping barely past the threshold.

In there, the silence almost takes physical form, circling her underwear-clad body. Her shivering has nothing to do with the temperature. Rampant thoughts are to blame. The kind that flourishes all too often when she's alone.

"_Your father really wishes he could be there sweetie, but this conference is just crucial, you understand, right?"_

"_Sorry honey, I was sure you liked this band, that' why I got you those tickets…"_

"_No mom, I haven't listened to them since I was 12…"_

"_Come on, sista, kick it higher! Higher! That's it! Wow, you'll be an amazing dancer someday!"_

_No, don't think about Cristina, not now. Not again_. she tells herself. She tries to force the memories away, to no avail. Angrily, she grabs the remote and turns the TV on. Techno music thankfully floods the room while flashy-clothed girls appear on the screen and start their demonstrations. The remote is quickly dropped on the bed, one (just one) sigh is allowed and soon enough she's attempting the usual. Pushing the anger, the guilt, the fear away with effort and sweat.

One hour later, she's thoroughly drenched and nowhere nearer peace of mind. While the usual burden is now subdued, the words Evans told her still sting. Strange, she figured it would be the other way around.

**No, they don't.** "Well, let's prove him wrong." she whispers. The chair emits a lamenting squeak when she lets herself fall on it ungracefully. She twists it toward the computer and her fingers start flying over the keyboard.

The pale _"What are you thinking?"_ words of her Facebook status swiftly disappear and are replaced.

_**Santana Lopez**__ is tired of it all. What's the point of holding on anyway?_

She pushes herself away from the desk and heads for the adjacent bathroom. _I'll show him!_ she thinks haughtily, turning the shower knob to scalding hot.

When she emerges 20 minutes later, in a cloud of steam, her eyes are automatically drawn to the glowing screen, to that blue header. Nothing. Not a single red digit, no comment, no private message, no nothing. Yet almost everyone she hangs out with is online, the chat section confirms it. So no one cares, that's good to know…

Despite her practice at self-control, she can feel her throat tighten. She shakes her head childishly and that's when she sees it. The blinking tab and the pop-up window.

_**Sam Evans**__ messaged you!_

**Call me. NOW.**

**Where r u?**

**Come on Santana, quit it.**

**Wtf, call!**

**That's it, I'm coming over.**

Disbelief fans over her face. For a minute, she just stands still and stares at the urgent phrases, dripping steadily on the hardwood floor. Then the doorbell rings, immediately followed by frantic pounding. She snaps, flicking her hair and spraying her desk in the same movement."Shit, shit, shit!" she swears, rummaging through her closet for clothes, her fingers finally grasping a satin robe. She slips it on as she rushes downstairs, tying up the thin belt a mere second before opening the door.

While she expected an out of breath Sam on her porch, he, on the other hand, clearly didn't think she was going to answer that fast. He leans heavily on the doorframe, panting, and a relieved grin spreads on his lips.

"Thank God, you're all right! I was seriously worried. I thought you were… Man, I don't know… What the hell was that about?" he asks between shortened breaths.

She bites her lower lip, crosses her arms and goes for a defensive glare. Unfortunately, it fails. Considering that his obvious concern is kind of sweet, it's rather hard to be mad at him or to push him away.

"A stupid experience, forget it." she replies hastily. She offers him a small smile, a penance of sorts she figures. Stepping sideways, she gestures for him to come inside.

Once the door is closed, the awkwardness rises. They stand face-to-face, Sam with his hands nervously running through his mane while Santana is growing irritated at the feeling of her own hair clinging to her neck. Their eyes meet and all movement ceases. Sam lets out a weird chuckle but his air betrays him. The questioning is still active in his mind. She knows it.

"Fine, I give up. Come on, you relentless boy." she says. She grabs his hand and starts towing him into the corridor. Past a narrow door, she leads him down the steps to an impressive basement.

"What do you mean? No wait, what are doing Santana?" the stunned boy wonders aloud.

"I'm never getting rid of you unless I fess up and I'm not doing this under 15 SPH." She states firmly. She pulls on the hand one last time, sending Sam flying in the direction of the sofa while she veers behind a high counter. He somehow manages to keep his balance and sits on the plump cushions.

Yet another question slips out.

"SPH?"

"Yeah, SPH, Shooters Per Hour. This situation totally qualifies for that. So, tequila or Jack?" she demands, shaking each bottle in alternation.

"Err, whatever's fine, you choose." he replies.

"JD it is." She bends down, pulls glasses from the cupboard and a plastic container of sliced lemons from the built-in refrigerator. Getting back up, she sees Sam now cautiously leaning against the back of the couch and suddenly all the discomfort rushes back into the room.

She clears her throat and sets the stuff on the coffee table before sitting down next to him "We should make it a game." she tells him, forcing a lemon slice at the bottom of the glass and pouring the amber liquid over it. He sends a bewildered look. "Come on, Prince Valiant, don't give me this." She sighs while handing him a shot "You wanna be this weird all night?"

"Yeah, you're right…" He cracks a small smile. "What did you have in mind?"

"Basic rules. One drink gets you one question, but we take turns. I don't wanna be the only one spilling guts here!" she states firmly.

"Fine by me, I'll even let you start!" he agrees.

She nods and kicks back the drink, her eyes squinting when the fire spreads in her body. "Humph!" she shrugs. "How did you get here?" she asks. Waiting for his answer, she leans back, letting her feet rest on the edge of the glass table.

He avoids her inquisitive look by fixating on the movement of her feet, the fidgeting toes a strangely interesting sight.

"Well, I was at Quinn's working on the Glee club assignment, you know, looking for romantic songs, when your status popped up. I happened to be at her computer and her Facebook was on. I… I just couldn't let it be, not after this afternoon… I was afraid you'd… Not sure what I imagined you'd do but anyways. I just made up an excuse and went back home. I ended up asking Puck for your address. Knowing him he must think I want to get with you…" he finishes with a sheepish smile, one she returns graciously.

"Like you have any chance…" she teases. "Queen Quinn must be super-pissed right now. Serves her right…" she mutters aside.

"What?"

She dismisses the remark. "Never mind. Your turn."

He nods, lifts his glass and deftly lets the alcohol slide into his mouth. She almost blushes when she realizes that the movement hypnotizes her but his question dampens her mood. "Why did it get to you that much, what Rachel said?" he inquires softly. A slight fit of cough follows, giving her time to get a grip.

"Damn, boy, you don't wait to go for the kill, don't ya?" she groans.

He laughs quietly. "Learning from you I guess…"

"Either that or you're not one for foreplay, huh?" she counters, closing her eyes. Her hand automatically reaches for the bottle for a refill but he prevents her from doing so.

"You said one question: one shot. It's not your turn."

A fling of the arm, another groan and she agrees. Without needing to lift her eyelids to confirm it, she knows he has that preaching, decided and yet understanding look on. That same look that convinced her to let him in today, both figuratively and literally.

"Fine, Evans, but I demand another question." Her tone is harsh but most of all sincere. "Something lighter. I'm not nearly drunk enough yet for the heavy stuff."

"Okay. What's your favorite color?"

"Oh. My. God."

Midnight comes around and the Lopez basement resembles a war zone, with the remains of a major food and alcohol binge scattered everywhere. Many game turns have now passed. The rules are no longer followed, replaced by random comments, confessions and goofiness.

Over the course of the evening, the mood shifted repeatedly. It turned tense around 8:00, when Santana decided it was time for her to get dressed. Mainly because she had seemingly forgot that, despite being in a relationship, Sam was still a straight guy with the ability to see. So parading in front of him in various outfits, without bothering to change in another room, sort of made him a little uncomfortable, and not just in his mind…

Things turned serious again when he texted his mother, around 10:00. She wondered why he didn't do it before, he replied with a shrug. When she didn't let go, he ended up telling her of his father losing his job and how his mom now had to work 2 uncertain jobs to keep the family in relative comfort. His dad was busy as well, looking for a position. They didn't have the time to worry about him; he tried not to give them reason to. Still, he had made a habit out of keeping them updated on his whereabouts.

Thankfully, 4 shots later, they both had lightened up and from then on, stuck with lighter topics. This led to right now, and the current effort of Sam to make Santana listen to his iPod…

He stumbles and for a second she fears he'll fall on top of her. The rudimentary tasks of untangling his earphones and getting up both seem behind his impaired abilities. Incontrollable giggles erupt at the sight of his wobbling body. "You… look like N'Sync in that… Bye Bye Bye video!" she bursts out.

He snorts at the demeaning comment but persists on his "journey". He finally reaches her curled up form on the couch and leans forward, awkwardly inserting the buds into her ears. The proximity does make her laughter subside. He's concentrated on the silver music player and she has nowhere else to rest her gaze but the baby face inches from hers.

For once, no biting remark comes to her mind. Can't even find another joke about that insane mouth, she can only notice how soft the lips seem…

"Just… Ah, there. I-I was looking for a romantic song for Glee assignment and…It reminded me…" he blubbers, "It just fits you, this, I think…" He falls down, voluntarily (sort of), and hands her the player. A playful smile on his lips, he lies down on the carpet, hands behind his head.

She glances at the screen and while she recognizes the artist's name (Bryan Adams), the song is unknown to her. It's already playing and she screws her eyes shut to better focus her flickering attention on the lyrics.

_Was it some man  
>That didn't treat you right?<em>

This line makes her scoff in derision. Most of the time she's the one mistreating them.

_You're so easy to hold  
>It's so easy to touch you…<em>

This line pisses her off, a little. _I'm not easy. Well not any more than the rest of the Cheerios. _she thinks.

_It's so easy to want you that I  
>I can't get enough…<em>

This one makes her grin. Join the club…

_Tell me why do you have to be  
>Why do you have to be so hard to love?<em>

Her smile falters at this one.

_Is it some hurt, from long ago,  
>That makes it so hard to let your feelings show?<em>

It disappears completely when she hears this one.

_Is it the ghost of who you used to be  
>That makes you so afraid to bare your soul to me?<em>

Her chin trembles at this one and she bites her lower lip, trying to keep the shake from spreading. Another failure.

By the time it's over, tears have spilled between her eyelashes and are flooding her cheeks. She rips the earphones out and throws the whole thing at a drowsy Sam.

"What? What happened?" he mutters groggily. Finally seeing her distress, he gets back to his feet, surprisingly fast for someone in his state. He has her cooped up in his arms quickly enough, yet she's already torn by wrecking sobs. She feebly tries to push him away but the emotions make it impossible.

"Hey, hey…" he whispers against her hair "Don't take it like that, it's just a song…"

"N-No, don't! Y-You're right-t, this-this song is t-t-oo, they don't… I'm j-just li-ike her…" She can't manage to choke out anything else, and it only amplifies her misery.

"What? Like who? Who are you talking about?" he asks. She shakes her head in negation, sending a few tangled strands in Sam's face. "Come on San," he insists "can't you tell me by now?"

"N-No, not-t right now." She twists her head away from him, trying to organize her thoughts coherently in spite of the alcohol and overwhelming sensations. "Tomorrow?" she whispers expectantly. _Yes, tomorrow, when I will have had time to think of a reasonable explanation, when you won't be so close, when I won't be so weak._

"Tomorrow's Valentine's Day" he says slowly.

"Right." She stiffens in the enclave of his arms. His reply acts as a cold shower, halting her breakdown and steadying her breathing. She lets him go on anyway.

"What do you say we meet… before… well at like…"

"Don't bother, feather hair." she interrupts. "I don't wanna mess up your _romantic_ plans with Her Highness!"

She bites the interior of her cheeks, hard. _What a douche! What is he doing, trying to squeeze me between engagements, like I'm a doctor's appointment?_

_Oh God, I can't do this any longer…_The mix of too many shooters, bad pizza and roller-coasters discussions is meddling with her sanity. Nausea rushes back and she closes her eyes, willing it away.

That's when she feels Sam running his hands on her messed up hair, so delicately. She no longer fears being sick, as the dizziness is replaced with the urge to cry, again. What is it about him that thwarts any attempt to push him away?

His lips trail down from her brow to her temple. The words tickle against her damp skin.

"You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm all good intentions."

"Yeah, I noticed." She can't help sniffling a bit. "Dork."

He laughs quietly and his hold slacks a little, enough for her to tilt her head up. This in turn makes her marvel at his nice open face.

"Why do you bother with me Sam, really?"

He chews his bottom lip, letting the question sink in as his teeth do the same in the plump flesh.

"You're an intriguing girl Santana. How could I not bother? Call it curiosity, but I like to think I'm just… interested."

Leaving his embrace, she lies down on the sofa, her head on the armrest, her feet on her new drinking buddy. Sam's arms seem to search for an appropriate place before settling for her legs, his hands hanging carefully away from her skin.

She cocks her head to the side, peering at him through half-closed eyelids. "I'd say you're a nice guy, through and through. Guess it does make you curious, in a way." Stretching her arms in front of her, she yawns widely. "Shouldn't have to put up…" she mumbles.

"What?" he asks half-heartedly. Her fatigue is contagious, his head keeps slamming backwards to rest on the soft cushion.

"Qu… She doesn't…" Santana mutters.

The unfinished words hang in the air, to be neither completed nor heard, since both teens are now sound asleep.

**A/N (2): Lyrics were borrowed from **_**Why Do You Have To Be So Hard To Love**_**, by Bryan Adams.**


	3. Moving Forward, Or Not

**A/N: Once again, dedicated to Lolee Ann, a cave-in to her blackmail. Happy now? ;) **

**Just to warn everybody, I have only the first line of chapter 4 written so far so expect a little wait before the next update! We're shifting to Sam's POV here. Review if you feel like it! **

Sam's the first to emerge. The pale rays that creep between the blinds land directly on his face, teasing him until he fully wakes up. His hand reaches for his eyes, fueled by an instinct to swat the light away, but bumps against a foreign object. Disgusted, he removes the warm citrus peel that has glued itself on his cheek and throws it on the now sticky table. As he stretches and takes in the devastated living room simultaneously, he finally notices his companion. She has curled up somewhere during the night, liberating his legs, and is now all bundled in the corner of the sofa.

Surely he should head out but he can't help wasting a few seconds contemplating her. She looks so different now. Tear trails on her flushed cheeks, abundant, tangled hair messily sprawled across her face. Not as hot as usual but certainly much more moving. Her expression, so focused even in sleep, reminds him of a child lost in a nightmare. He debates whether he should approach her or not, ultimately deciding not to. Just a pointless smile in lieu of a waking goodbye and he silently leaves her.

Outside, the air still has that damp undertone, so specific to dawn. It makes the freezing temperature worse. Sam hastens his steps, hoping to counter the cold with the exercise. There will be time to get warmed up; it's a long walk back to his home. A lot of things to mull over on the way too.

The old door squeaks when he closes it behind him. Normally this betrayal doesn't matter, considering the early hour. At least today it shouldn't, because he recalls his mother worked the late shift and therefore must be sound asleep at the far end of the house.

He turns around and nearly jumps out of his skin. Mary Evans is standing in the hallway, leaning against the kitchen doorway, with a mug in her hand and a tired yet amused look on her face.

"Jesus, mom!" he whispers, breathless. "You scared me half to death! What are you doing up?"

She chuckles softly and takes a small sip before replying. "You know, it's usually the mother that asks the questions when her son comes home at 6 a.m.!" She steps sideways, signaling him to follow her in the kitchen with an inviting smile. He smiles back, relieved. She carries on with the conversation as he settles in the dimly lit room. "I changed shifts with Frances, so you could have the car for your big date tonight."

Once again, his parent's consideration shines through, even in those hard times. It makes his throat tighten. Just then, surely thanks to those clairvoyant powers mothers possess, a glass of water materializes in front of him. "No coffee for you mister, it'll just dehydrate you more." Mary comments. He grabs the offered drink and downs it rapidly. A pink flush colors his cheeks. Guilt is the main cause of it, as much as he would like to blame the coldness of the water.

His mother rests her hand lightly on his arm and rubs it gently. "So…" she inquires.

Sam sighs before giving her the required information. The "Mary List", basically the price to pay for enjoying the freedom she allows.

"Alcohol, but no drugs, no cigarettes, no sex and no behavior worthy of YouTube." he recites diligently.

She acknowledges his statement with a nod and a quick squeeze of his shoulder. After a minute of silence, disturbed solely by the sound of another coffee being prepared, she sits down and hands in her sentence. "OK, well first off, you'll go to sleep. You look like you could still use some rest. Then, I'll let you go on your date with Quinn tonight, if and only if all your homework for the week is done. On top of that, you'll watch Stevie tomorrow while I shop with Stacy."

He sighs, for form's sake. He's getting off easy and knows it. "Fine, mom." He waits but no more comments are voiced. He shifts on the chair. It's not over and he knows it.

"Anything else you want to say?" Mary asks. For a mother talking to her son who just drank the night away, she sounds more curious and concerned than suspicious. Then again, Sam is aware that his mom is far from ordinary. That knowledge pushes him to confide in her.

"You remember Santana? I told you about her…" he starts quietly.

"Quinn's friend? The bitchy one?" she inquires.

He can't help wincing at the adjective, regardless of its truth. "Yeah. Well, she's going through some stuff these days, I'm trying to help her with it." he says.

She examines the table for an instant, looking up to meet Sam's eyes. She tilts her head to the side, an amiable smile on her face. "Sure it's a good idea?" she asks.

"What? How could be a friend to her not be a good idea?" he replies.

"Well, she's your girlfriend's friend. You spent the night at her place." She continues. Sam is on the verge of protesting, she raises her hand to stop him in his tracks. "I know, nothing happened. But you and Quinn, it's still recent. She doesn't know you that well yet, and girls that age, they're sensitive and little things can hurt their self-esteem."

"Man…" Sam whispers, his head dropping to rest on his crossed forearms on the table. "I just wanted to help…"

Mary chuckles in response. "I know, it sucks." She goes back to the coffeemaker, pouring herself another cup before resuming the conversation. "You're so caring, Sammy, and it's one of your best qualities. It's just… You have to consider how it can be seen by the people around you. You get tunnel vision sometimes and you might end up in a sticky situation because of that."

He keeps his head down anyway, although he can feel the words make their way and their logic helps, somewhat. "You said it mom, it sucks. But I can't let it go, she needs me."

Another quiet laugh makes itself heard and next thing he knows, she's hugging him from behind. It's a nice, supportive feeling. She gives him a quick peck on the top of his head before letting him go. "You're such a good person, you know? Don't worry about it, OK? Just… Tell Quinn about it, what you can at least. Make sure she knows you're not hiding from her, and that she's got nothing to worry about. Then everything'll be fine, you'll see."

He nods mutely. Getting up to put his glass away, black spots flash before his eyes and a sudden nausea floods his senses. "Whoa…" he mutters. The back of the chair provides a welcome stability to his failing equilibrium.

In a second his mom is back next to him, helping sit back in the seat. "What's going on, Sam? You didn't walk all the way here, did you?"

"Well, yeah…" he admits.

"My God, Sammy! It's like 4 miles! At dawn! Hung over!" Her voice goes shriller with each exclamation mark.

"Mom, mom, volume, please!" he whines. "Like you said, hung over here…"

"Yeah, hung over… Well, okay, Mr. Hung-over, you are going to go to bed before you either pass out or puke all over my breakfast!"

He has to look up now, because, no matter how much he knows his mother, he has to make sure she's not seriously pissed. Relief partially replaces the dizziness he's feeling when he sees the sparkles in her eyes that contradict her ominous tone.

"Yeah, guess I should." he mumbles.

She pulls him up, shooing him out in a low voice. It takes a good minute for him to fumble his way to his bedroom, the weight of his half-night and of the many drinks consumed hindering his steps.

By a force of habit, he slumps down in front of his computer, opens his browser and clicks rapidly on the bookmark leading to his email account.

He blinks rapidly while the page loads, the brightness of the screen a harsh test on his tired retinas. Once his focus adjusts, he is surprised, to say the least, to notice a message from Santana in his inbox, sent a few minutes ago. Once the email opened, its content makes the whole thing even stranger.

No subject, no greeting, no signature. Just a link to a YouTube video, with one directive:

_Skip to 1:21. And thank you._

Without thinking, his hand guides the mouse to the blue line, clicking on it. The new page opens, a simple music video, both the title and artist unknown to him. He doesn't let the music go on, instead obeying Santana's demand and advancing the song to the 1:21 mark. A folksy beat and a sincere voice echo in his room.

_I'm __sinking, __I'm __drowning_  
><em>I'm <em>_so __afraid __of __losing_  
><em>My <em>_head's __been __spinning __round __and __round_  
><em>Since <em>_you've __been __around_

_I'm __foolish __and __crazy_  
><em>I <em>_just __think __that __maybe __I __got __a __lot __of __things __to __figure __out_  
><em>I'm <em>_winning, __I'm __losing_  
><em>I'm <em>_afraid __of __never __choosing  
>This <em>_heart __of __mine __was __so __beaten __down  
>Before <em>_you __came __around_

The song is over, the room is back to its previous silent state and the usual "related videos" are parading over and over again in front of him. He barely sees them. He's not there. His eyes are looking beyond the screen, his thoughts are turned back to last night and a huge grin is now displayed on his face. He leans back on his chair, amazed beyond words. While he doesn't know how much weight he should give to this message, it's clear he got through to here, more than he thought. It's a warm, pleasing feeling, much more rewarding than he hoped it to be. The fact that she chose to tell him the Glee way, through a song, is all the more astonishing, since she's always so dismissive of those methods. "Let's play along then" he thinks merrily.

It doesn't take a long research to find a proper reply, just a rapid run through his music library. Two minutes to write a few lines below the link, (_You're __welcome. __Listen __from __1:28 __to __2:03, __hopefully __you'll __like __this __one __better._) and he just clicks on it for confirmation, skipping to the right verse.

_For someone to rely on and a shoulder to cry on  
>You can depend on me<br>If you're in need of some kindness  
>And you can't seem to find it<br>You can depend on me  
>Well there ain't no need to worry you know we'll get along<br>Those dark clouds may surround you  
>But together we'll be strong<em>

Kind of cheesy, but at least it gets the message across. In a really obvious manner. Plus it's absolutely what he feels. Gosh, Mr. Schue would be so proud!

Once the response sent, he doesn't even have a smidgen of doubt, surprisingly. Sam Evans, the best example of a second-guessing, insecure guy, is actually confident and comfortable. Not for the first time ever, however, it's definitely the first time with a girl. When he slips into his bed, sleep finally getting the better of him, his big goofy grin just won't fade away. As he drifts into oblivion, it disappears, albeit his face keeps its relaxed air.

It's 3 p.m. when he wakes up. There is no way he could keep on resting, not with Stacy and Stevie engaged in a fierce lightsaber battle in the next room. He groans, stretching his arms out to pull the covers over his head, because each _whoosh_ sound effect (both kids are sticklers for authenticity) is making his forehead throb. God, he will always regret showing them Star Wars.

He reluctantly gets out of bed, sloppily making his way to the bathroom to try to get back to human form. A long shower, fresh clothes and already his brain feels lighter. A snack and 4 glasses of orange juice added to that and he's completely back. The rest of the afternoon is spent on catching up on his homework, making sure he's in the clear for his evening out.

While he's not exactly giddy at the prospect of two hours of algebra problems and English essays, his mood remains good. Why shouldn't it, after all? He has helped her, really helped her, even if she hasn't told him anything really, not yet. She trusts him now, he reached her. That comforting thought lingers on his mind, bringing a smile on his lips on occasion.

Around 7:30, he's all clear and free to go. Leaving the driveway in his parent's car, he grows more serious and suddenly regrets agreeing to meet Quinn at the restaurant. The drive alone, with just his thoughts, is not a good idea. Delaying facing his girlfriend is the bad idea, actually. His hands become clammy on the wheel. No matter how innocent the past night has been, guilt is one rampant feeling, and an inevitable one too. She will have questions, and he will have to find a way to present the events in the right light, in order to prevent an explosive public fight on the most romantic day of the year.

In a curious change of opinions, he figures that having some time ahead doesn't look so bad.

Time, he's got plenty, as he finds out. 9 o'clock rolls around and still no sign of his date. In a last resort, he texts her, for the fourteen time. He leaves the phone in front of him, willing a reply with all his heart. _I'm __tired __of __the __rehearsal, __either __call __or __get __here __so __I __can __get __it __all __out!_ he thinks, irked.

His hands link on his nape, his elbows on the table to support his weariness. When the electronic beep of the incoming message pulls him out of his trance, he doesn't budge, merely shifting a bit to get a clear view of the screen.

**2 sick 2 b ther, flu i think. sorry. xxx**

A flush of anger floods him. He regrets it within seconds and grabs his phone back, quickly sending Quinn a heartfelt "get well" message. There's no point in keeping it close, so he slides it in his coat pocket.

A choir of acapella voices suddenly covers the rumor of conversations. Lifting his gaze, he sees all the Warblers standing in the entrance, singing the overture to Silly Love Songs, if he's not mistaken. _Great, __couldn't __have __a __better __timing_! he thinks, bitterness souring his mood.

He glimpses back and forth between his appetizer and the other tables, trying to stay clear of the lead singer, Kurt's friend he thinks, who's now shimmying around in the restaurant. If there is one thing he doesn't need, it's a serenade after being stood up on Valentine's Day.

Looks like the girl at the table near him is just as non-receptive as he is, given Blaine (that's the singer's name, right?) mocking face. Blaine actually saunters away, and his most recent victim drops her head. She turns around, probably sensing Sam's indiscreet staring. It happens too fast for him to react, but the uneasiness doesn't last.

When his eyes are met by Santana's, he can't even qualify the emotion that washes over him. It's agreeable, that's for sure. Something akin to hearing the right song, at the right moment. He's briefly reminded of that car scene in Jerry Maguire. It prompts him to smile affectionately, sending her a timid wave at the same time. She responds, although she doesn't seem quite as sincere.

He lifts one eyebrow questioningly, earning a basic shrug for an answer. _Now __that __won't __do__…_

Picking up his plate, glass and coat, he heads for Santana's table, sitting down in front of her without waiting for an invitation.

"Hi." he says, turning on the sweet Evans charm to its limits as an excuse for his intrusion.

"Hey." she replies flatly. She doesn't seem that bothered by his imposed presence, countering it by casually stealing a potato skin from his entrée. "Where's your other half?" she inquires, her mouth full.

"Home. She stood me up." he answers, unable to keep his tone cheery. Even if Santana is kind of looking like a squirrel right now, with her cheeks puffed by the over-sized bite she just took. He clears his throat, awkwardly. "So… Did you get my, you know…"

"Yeah, I did. It… It was very sweet. Thank you." She stammers. Her gaze shifts away from Sam's concentrating on what's left of the food in front of her, her fidgety fingers playing with it.

"San…Don't do this." he warns her. His hands rest on hers, trying to calm them, while he tries to make eye contact. "You're slipping back, aren't you? You're gonna act all distant, like yesterday didn't happen, right?"

"What? No!" she protests vigorously. A few heads turn their way at the exclamation, forcing her to lower her voice. "I'm not gonna pretend, it's not my style!" Her hands evade his grasp, plunging under the tablecloth, out of reach.

"But hiding is." he gently states. "Look, I'm not gonna do this dance with you. I'm here, like I said I would. And, while I don't recall everything that happened, I remember you saying that you'd explain who _her_ is today…." he presses.

A look of pure terror is the only response he gets. For a fleeting second, he second-guesses his insistence, before his confidence comes back.

"If that face is any sign, you seriously need to tell someone. Whatever it is. Nothing capable of scaring you like this should be carried alone."

She finally looks up. Fear retreats from the depths of her brown eyes, while her hands creep back from underneath the table. His are still extended, offered. Their fingertips graze and settle there. It's not quite a touch, not quite a distance either.

She sighs. While it doesn't sound much relieved, it doesn't sound upset either. It's more like a signal, the opening act. "You're right." she admits. Nervously, she tightens her ponytail. "Damn, you're always right!" she adds.

He feels no need to defend himself and therefore he flashes a small, encouraging smile. Enough to get her started.

"_Her_, it's my sister, Cristina. She's dead." She drops the bomb in a clear, sharp voice. It doesn't lessen the impact.

"Shit, San I'm so s-" Sam jumps out of his seat, only to be forcefully pushed back by Santana's hand on his shoulder.

"Don't, don't come nearer. Stay there, it's actually easier with you in front of me." she assures him.

He nods, even if he's not sure if she can see it. There's an unmistakable faraway look in her eyes. He knows then that, even if it seems like she's talking to him, she's more than likely reciting an inner monologue instead.

"Cristie was like, the best sister. Well, I thought. I mean, she was so much fun. Always ready to play with me or help me… And she never acted like I was annoying or pestering her, even when I was."

She seems so small, all of a sudden. Sam can't help it and once again his fingers reach out to her. This time though, hers retreat before any sort of contact is achieved. In fear of breaking the spell of the moment, he doesn't insist, letting her continue her story with that sure tone.

"She left Lima years ago. She never really liked the people here, she kept saying they didn't know how to have fun. So, when she graduated, she moved to Chicago, looking for fun. I was ten." Her voice quavers, and she keeps silent. Staring at him.

Once more, he tries to touch her, and practically yelps from surprise when she latches on his hands, grabbing them forcefully. «And?" he tentatively offers, moving his fingers around to find a comfortable, and comforting, grip.

"Oh, she found it!" she spats bitterly. "Partying, getting drunk off her ass every 2 days. At least she was still coming home once in a while, spending some weekends with me, you know." She looks up from their joined hands, her gaze now hardened. "But it wasn't enough. So she amped it up. Ecstasy, speed, coke. Still not enough, so she upped to heroin. We didn't see much more of her around here after that. We heard that she was stripping. Then no more news until the call that informed us she had OD'd."

Big fat tears that cannot be contained anymore start rolling down her cheeks. She doesn't even attempt to hide them, or wiped them away. He can't tolerate it any longer and, without letting go of her hands, moves around the table to sit next to her. No argument, not a word escapes her lips when he scoots closer. One hand breaks free and snakes around her waist. Riding up her back, it brings her head to rest on his shoulder, where the thin material of his shirt becomes the finish line for her breakdown.

It's a highly compromising position. Wrapped around his girlfriend's best friend, in public, on V-Day… He does scan the restaurant rapidly, to appease the minuscule part of his brain that actually cares about that. Nobody's looking, or wants to look maybe. His entire attention returns to Santana, who's quietly melting in his embrace. Her distress seems to subside, leaving a few heavy breaths and sniffles behind as evidence of her pain.

He risks a comment. "That's what you're afraid of? Ending up like that?" He feels her nodding, bump her head against his chin.

"That's what they all wait for." she whispers harshly. "My parents, the teachers, everybody else if Berry is to be relied on. It's bound to happen."

"Are you fucking serious?" he exclaims, pushing her away to force eye contact. "Didn't you say that Rachel's opinion didn't matter? How can you even believe that?"

She shakes her head, avoiding his gaze as much as possible in the confined space of his arms. "I'm just like her…" she whines. "I'm going to be…"

"No, you're not! Because you're nothing like her! Besides, from what you told me she didn't even know who she was!" he replies.

"Well, neither do I!" she cries. She stops talking, fighting, all at once. She locks eyes with him, an air of defeat darkening her face. "Neither do I." she repeats, so softly he almost has to read her lips.

"You do. I do. Hell, I'll tell you who you are." His voice rises, firm. "You're Santana Lopez. You're beautiful and you're aware of it. It has no value to you but you pretend like it does, so people won't think you're weird."

She stares at him like he's a madman, messily running her palms over her cheeks to dry them. He goes on.

"You're not really thin, you're frail, actually. You try to be spunky, but you end up being combative. And you like it when people fight around you because then they're too caught up in their emotions to start asking about you. It freaks you out, thinking they'll find out that you're actually a good person."

He stops, breathless, almost bracing himself for the slap to come. It does come. A fierce collision between her hand and his cheek, one he withstands bravely despite the pain it brings.

"See, I knew you'd do that." he simply says, getting up.

"Jerk!" she spats. Her face is red from anger and, he hopes, a bit of guilt. Or at least embarrassment, because it'd confirm that he was right.

"No, I'm not. And neither are you, no matter how hard you try." He rubs the side of his face gingerly, almost feeling the mark of her fingers on it. "Thank you, not for the slap, but for trusting me with your sister's story. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I meant what I sent you this morning."

He picks up his coat on the chair, sending her one last look as he drops some money on the table. "We can go back to square one." he tells her slowly. "Or not, it's up to you. I know I don't want to. I'm not giving up on you. Ever."

As he pronounces those words, he realizes that he's afraid. He fears that she might change her mind, leave things like this and never talk to him again. Why? Now that's a really good question. When did she become so important? Why does her friendship, out of everyone else's, matters so much? All good questions, if only he was in any state to answer them…

"Goodnight Santana. Happy Valentine's Day." he lets out, a last resort to separate on a positive, if ironic, note. She doesn't reply, her fixed stare still on the untidy table.

Her slumped form is the last vision of his evening and he leaves Breadstix in a blur.

**A/N: First excerpt was from _Since __You've __Been __Around_, by Rosie Thomas, second was from _Depend __On __Me_, by Bryan Adams (again, I know!)**


	4. Fix Me, Against My Will If You Have To

****A/N: Sorry for the insanely long time it took for me to update, I hope at least some of you haven't given up on this. Quite a long chapter (compared to what I'm used to) and it deals with a lot of stuff, so hopefully that makes up for the delay! This one is still Sam's POV.****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Fix Me, Against My Will If You Have To.<strong>

The week following Valentine's Day is a weird, unsettling one. Not just one thing is to blame, more a pyramid of people, actions, events. In the end, it culminates into a single fact, a quiet epiphany:

Being Sam Evans sucks.

It starts off OK, good even. Monday, he gets his first A in English. Seeing how he busts his ass in his classes, it's great to see that it's beginning to pay off. He works out more too, to compensate for no longer having football practice. The soreness and burning in his muscles are not unpleasant consequences, rather a testament to his efforts. At least in that department he can see it, because relationship-wise, it's painfully absent.

Santana is the first sign of the shitstorm that's approaching. Four days after their confrontation at the restaurant, she shows no indication that she'll ever speak to him again. While he does attempt to strike a conversation now and then (in the hallways, during free periods, after Glee practice), she just scoffs and walks away, as fast as she can. It hurts him, a sharp sting, each time the reconciliation fails. It's also frustrating, bordering on angering. He didn't say anything that was aimed to wound her, or anything false for that matter. Therefore she has no reason to stay so distant, so mad. This sensible reasoning doesn't seem to matter to her, so by Tuesday, Sam knows one more thing: girls are fickle, irrational creatures.

So yes, Santana actually remains angry, regardless of the logic, or lack of, behind this behavior. The worst part is that attitude seems to spread to Quinn as well.

He's not sure who, or what, is to blame. Santana's influence over Quinn, or vice-versa? Something he said, or did? All he knows is that, for all intents and purposes, he's been single for the past few days.

She doesn't call, she doesn't stick around long enough after classes for them to talk… This silent treatment is the kick-off, the initial slip downhill. It doesn't look that way at first. It never does.

It leads him to ask his dad for advice, for starters. And when James Evans obliges, he does it with telling his son of his own method for dealing with girl trouble...

* * *

><p>"<em>Dad, I don't want to hear about you and Mom doing it!" Sam exclaims, exasperated. "I just need an idea to make her come back!"<em>

_He plops down on the couch, legs sliding to full, lazy extension. His head remains bowed, even after enough time for his mood to settle has passed. When he speaks again, all agitation has disappeared, only the delicate, touching tone of despair is tinting his voice. "She's slipping away, Dad. I can't figure out why." After a few seconds of heavy silence, he looks up and is relieved to find all traces of mischief gone from his father's face. At least he's getting how serious the situation is this time. "I don't know what to do…" Sam murmurs._

_James smiles, a comforting, supportive "Dad" smile. "Whoa, she really got under your skin…" he notes. "Son, I wasn't about to tell you about some sexual prowess, even if I could!" he chuckles, eliciting yet another groan from his listener. "Seriously, there is only one thing you can do, given the situation, and it's pretty much what I did with your mom. You have to woo her." he states confidently._

_He walks up to the couch and sits down on the edge of it, as to leave Sam as much space as possible, while remaining close enough to offer tangible support._

"_I don't think your mother ever told you the story. It beats me as to why, because it's awesome!" James pursues, enthusiasm rising in his voice and gestures. "So we were both in college together, right? And I had this huge crush on her and kept asking her out, but she always said no. Then one Saturday, she was hanging out with her friends at the park and I just showed up. She used to tell me I wasn't wild enough for her. Well, right then and there, I sang Pour Some Sugar On Me, with the appropriate choreography!"_

_Sam looks up, incredulous. "You, with that voice? And with your moves?"_

"_Yeah. She loved it! Just showing her I could cut loose was enough to convince her to give me a chance." He playfully shoves his son with his shoulder. "You know, girls, you can make them love you if you take them hunting or if you're a rock'n roll man. We're not gun people, what choice does that leave you?"_

* * *

><p>This conversation lead him to that, that being an utterly memorable, heartfelt and surprisingly well-received Bieber homage. He sings his heart out, dances like a fool, the works. It seems to pay off too, because Quinn is all giggles and obviously charmed. But once it calms down, after the applause and the cheers, once Mr. Schuester lets them go, doubt creeps back in.<p>

He lets Quinn precede him through the door, ever the gentleman. His courtesy is greeted with the smallest of smiles and she's off, away from him, again. He stands for a second in the threshold, hesitating to follow her. Why should he, when she doesn't even wait for him anymore?

An arm springs up next to him, a hand grabs his shirt and the next second he's hauled down the corridor by a very determined Santana. "Jesus, San, can't you just ask me to follow you?" he shouts, prying her fingers off his sweater. Well, trying to.

She doesn't respond, nor stop. Therefore he's reduced to the embarrassing role of cargo, fumbling stupidly behind her because of her fast pace. There's a minute of flailing arms and tumbling legs, before he accepts his fate, grumbling as a last protest. _At least nobody is seeing this_ he reasons. He hopes so.

He'll try one last time. "Seriously San, ask me and I'll come with you. The dragging, it has to stop!"

"No way, Justin 2.0, it gots to be, because you don't get it otherwise." She takes a pause, shoving him inside the girl washroom before continuing. "And because I enjoy it."

It's back into the deserted bathroom apparently. She pulls him in, closes the door violently and locks it, silent but clearly fuming. She spins around, he steps back quickly. With her, you never know when the next slap is gonna come. Besides her hair can come close to whip him in the face.

"How dumb are you Evans? Seriously? Bieber? For her? Have you got no self-respect?" she starts off, ramming him with both hands on his chest with each question.

He retreats further, evading her abuse as much as possible. He can feel the anger rise in him, tingling on its way. A foreign feeling in his case. His voice quavers but resonates sincerely in the room. "What's wrong with that? Just because you're not willing to make any efforts to please people, I shouldn't? Sorry San but I like her. I want her to be happy, with me. If it takes every Bieber song sung to her for that to happen, well that's what I'll do!"

A deep silence is the only retort he gets. They stare at each other, lips tightly sealed, eyes flaring. Tensed, pent-up feelings are taking control, already. Sam sighs, turning away from her and heading for the counter. He propels himself up and sits between two sinks, his feet instinctively dangling. With his head bowed down, his hair covers his face partly. This is a useful shield, it lets him compose himself. Another sigh before he looks back at her, who hasn't moved.

"I don't want to fight, San." he tells her, dejected. "Could we just, I dunno, talk?" He swats his bangs out of the way to get a better look at her.

She's flushed, wide-eyed, but the way her breathing is slowing down gives him hope for a calmer conversation. A shrug is all she offers but she joins him on the counter anyway. After a second, he gives it another try, another angle.

"Do you remember Sectionals?" he asks.

The annoyed look she immediately shoots in his direction makes him backpedal. "Dumb question, of course you do. I meant to ask, did you see us, when Quinn and I sang?"

She lifts her shoulders, non-committal, picks at her thumbnail. Meticulously. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Well did you see how happy she was then, the way she would look at me?" He grins at the remembrance. It was such a perfect moment. Their voice soaring in unison, the undeniable chemistry brewing, the playful lyrics…

A glimpse of Santana's impatient air brings him back on point. "Well, I never had that before, that kind of connection with a girl. Ever. She made me feel like I was the best part of her life, you know? Like I was the only one who could make her smile like that. Is it wrong to want it back?"

She lets out a groan. Her hand leaves her lips, falling at her side on his, grasping lightly. "Of course not." she says. "It's just… I mean, you're just picking the worst girl to be obsessed about. It's a waste of effort." Her tone, while gentle, doesn't make her words less infuriating.

"Hey, you don't know that!" he spats. His hand slips away from hers, and he pushes himself off the makeshift seat. Back on his feet, he feels more in power. Her reply is swift, and merciless.

"Believe me, I know her." She drops to the floor as well. "Yeah, you looked cute and shit together. Doesn't change the fact that she is a bitch who doesn't deserve your time!"

He puffs. "Takes one to know one." He's never been OK with handing out insults, so a twinge of regret flutters inside him. It doesn't linger once he realizes she didn't even flinch at the remark.

"Exactly. So I know what I'm talkin' about." She leans back against the counter, crosses her arms. "I'll have to spell it out for you, pretty boy? She's. Cheating. On. You." she dictates.

He stares, mute, dumbfounded. "Wh-What?" he croaks.

"You heard me. She and Finn are still at it. It's written all over their faces."

Cold belief starts to spread in him; he pushes it away with anger. He squints at her, she holds his stare with defiance.

"If all you have is what you can tell from their faces, then you got nothing." he growls. He shoves her away and unlocks the door. He's half out when he turns around one last time. "You know what? I changed my mind. I know I said I'd be there, but if all you can do is talk _shit_, then just forget me, OK?"

He hears her "Goddamn it Sam! Wait!" but walks away. He knows she's not following him, and is grateful.

_Don't, don't think about it._

The only sounds around is the one his feet are making on the dirty tiles of the hallway and some distant shouts from the gym. Not enough to drown his thoughts.

_She's imagining things._

* * *

><p>So that's Tuesday. Wednesday is no better. With the guys ambushing him early, with their "Justin Bieber Experience" expansion plan. With Quinn persisting in her elusive behavior.<p>

He tries, as always, on both sides. He schedules an early practice with his new band mates, sends carefully worded, romantic texts to his girlfriend. It all feels empty. Because Santana's revelation is always with him, like a bad omen over each and every one of his actions.

* * *

><p>Thursday, turns out that omen is true, along with the discovery of how much his life can suck, fast.<p>

He's walking into the choir room with Puck, discussing the details of their upcoming performance when he sees them. Finn and _her_, urgently making out. They're so wrapped up into each other that it takes a whole 5 seconds before they realize they have two very surprised spectators. When they do part and notice them, they immediately step away, wiping their mouths in a hurry. As if it would erase what he just saw.

_Just like in the movies_. The only thought that comes through before his mind shuts down. Blanked face, he turns around and calmly retraces his steps. No haste. He even hears them, Finn's rambling apology, Quinn's "_Sam, I can explain!_", Puck's "_Man, not cool._". They don't affect him, nor stop him. It all rolls down without consequence, like water on a raincoat.

He knows. He should be furious, should be swinging punches at Finn by now. No, he just feels cold. Like a switch has been turned off inside, cutting the power. So he goes to his locker, starts taking his books out for his first class, on auto-drive. Puck reaches him seconds later. He tries to ignore him but with that heavy hand landing hard on his shoulder, it's not possible.

"Bro, that was harsh! I know I shouldn't judge and all, considering, but damn! What a douche! And Finn's not better…" Puck says.

Beneath the excited tone, Sam can hear compassion, but also pity. Strangely, he can't even bring himself to care. He closes the metallic door slowly, rearranges the binder and notebook in his arms. Diversions, you know.

"I'll tell Artie and Mike we'll forget you for the show this afternoon. No way we're making you sing the Biebs in front of her!"

"I'll do it." No emotion whatsoever in his voice. A part of him wishes he could inject some, if only to make Puck quit staring at him with perceptive eyes.

"The choreography's all planned anyway. And I said I'll help you guys, I'm not just gonna let you down because of…" A twinge in his throat prevents him from continuing. A pause, a cough, a deep breath. After all of these he can proceed with the rest of his idea. Not that Puck's scrutiny is making it any easier.

"Could you, you know, not talk about this? To the guys I mean?" Some heat, along with a flush to his cheek, returns to him. The initial shock is wearing off. The image of Quinn (_MY girlfriend_) pressed tight against Finn, letting muffled moans escape their joined lips, is slowly burning an indelible template in his mind. He glances back to Puck. "Until I talk to her, work it out?"

"Work it out?" Puck's incredulity, as big as a billboard, is stretched all across his face. "What are you on man? There's nothing to work out, she was slutting it out right in your face!"

Biting his lip, Sam turns away. _I know, I saw!_ At the end of the hallway, steps and the sound of closing doors finish shaking him awake. Sure enough, the newly-discovered couple is coming around the corner. "I… I'm gonna go. Can't be late to class. See-See ya in French." he says hurriedly.

_Lamest excuse ever,_ he thinks as he's practically running towards his first class. It's barely 07:30, after all. A red veil covers his eyes and is progressively dimming his sight. More accurately, shame is blinding him. _Dumb, why are you so fucking dumb? It was all there, everyone could see it but you... _

The distracting rant going on inside, along with his frantic pace, results in him bumping into Santana, hard. He spins around and their eyes lock. She doesn't look pissed, which is unusual. No, she even tries to talk to him, except there are no words coming out.

One thing's sure, she knows. Given how crimson his face must be by now, combined with him sporting what he can only assume to be glazed-over eyes, how could she not? Struggling to keep his composure and books in check, he lets out a "Don't." and flees to the safety of the classroom. There, slouched over the cold and insensitive desk at the farthest end, he can start putting himself back together. He has to.

4:30 rolls around and by then he has a better grip on himself. Enough, at least, to get on stage with the guys. Enough to grab a mike and talk to the girls in the audience. Enough to maintain the façade, even in her presence. "This song, like all the songs I sing, is for my girlfriend Quinn."

Impressive, there isn't the slightest hint of hesitation in his declaration. Ok, maybe a spark of damaged irony in his eyes, but that's it. He's nevertheless able to ignore Santana's disdained puff, and Puck's astonishment. It becomes even easier as the performance progresses (thank you, demanding and distracting choreography) but as soon as the last "love…" is bellowed, it's impossible. There is a second of stillness, during which he can see Quinn unconsciously leaning towards Finn, shoulders grazing. Too much, too soon. So he drops the microphone, runs away from the congratulations, away from the questions. Most of all running away from the shrill call of Santana's voice, begging him once more to wait for her.

On his way home, it's all about deep breaths and internal battles. Thank God for public transportation, the only way to bring him to his place in one piece, considering how unfocused he is. The two schools of thought, **"You have to deal with this."** and **"Not now."** are neck-and-neck by the time he enters his room. His computer, still open, procures him with a distraction when he sees that there are at least some emails to read. Something, anything beats dwelling on the absurdity of his relationship. Or so it would seem.

_From: Santana Lopez_.

Great, looks like the **"Deal with this"** camp is gonna win.

There are merely a few words in the subject section (_You wouldn't listen to me, well you better listen to this, or else…_), nothing more accompanies the link and the timeframe. Empty threat or not, it's enough to entice (well, force) him to listen to the song.

The first images almost make him back away. Kind of a weird video, and he's not into Linkin Park that much. Yet the gentle notes keep his attention.

_When you were standing in the wake of devastation  
>When you were waiting on the edge of the unknown<br>With the cataclysm raining down, insides crying "save me now"  
>You were there, impossibly alone.<em>

_Do you feel cold and lost in desperation?_  
><em>You build up hope, but failure's all you've known<em>  
><em>Remember all the sadness and frustration<em>  
><em>And let it go, let it go.<em>

Every little bit of him wishes he could hold on, but after 3 lines or so of the haunting lyrics and equally touching melody, his resolve melts. The floodgates open, and he buries his head in his crossed arms on his desk. His eyes are screwed shut to block the tears, while dry, angry sobs course his body.

Why did she have to go ahead and send this? Why does she have to be so fucking on the spot?

Because she is, she's seized him up perfectly. He knows that's how he was onstage during the performance: a puppet, acting like he belonged while disintegrating inside. He can pretend all he wants, he's not fooling himself, or Santana apparently.

Lifting his head back up, he breathes in, shakily, just in time. A knock on his door, and a worried voice are then heard over his unstable breathing.

"Sammy? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." he lies. He blushes, even if it's usually the only kind of lie he can tell without too much guilt ensuing. Hurriedly, he runs his palms over his face, as if she could see his distress through the walls.

"OK then. I'm going to work, can you keep an eye on Stacy and Steve until your father gets home?"

"Sure Mom." he says flatly. After a last quick glance at his screen, he closes the window, then his computer. The dark, the silence, they're invading the room awfully fast. It only takes a few seconds to escape it, whatever time it takes to unplug his laptop and bring it, along with his math notebook, into the living room.

The hours of his evening pass slowly, with him keeping one eye on his siblings, the other on his homework. More than often, his thoughts drift away from the math problems, to questions much more personal, and puzzling.

Still, the song Santana sent him pops in his mind once in a while. A scrap of comfort, not much but it's a start, and he holds on to it. He has his own music on, his library on shuffle in the background. Without admitting it, he's not just filling the silence, he's also searching for a reply to send her.

By the time he's put Stacy and Steve in bed, he's almost given up on finding the appropriate response. It's when he does one last exploration of his playlists that he stumbles upon the perfect song.

Why there has to be a song in the first place? He's asking himself that very question. He could just tell her what's going on, what's he's feeling. Sure, it would be simpler, if he could put it into words. Words, well, they never were his strong suit. So the next best thing is to find lyrics that speak to him, which he finally does.

He searches on Youtube to find the best video, watching it several times to find the perfect part.

_I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out  
>I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing<br>With a broken heart that's still beating  
>In the pain, there is healing<br>In your name I find meaning  
>So I'm holdin' on, I'm holdin' on, I'm holdin' on<br>I'm barely holdin' on to you_

Exactly what he needed. The beginning says all he needs to convey. The multiple listenings prove to bear a little too heavily on his mood though, so he puts it all away as soon as he's done with his email to Santana. Go to sleep is the best he can do tonight.

* * *

><p>Through an unspoken agreement, they don't even talk the following day. Santana does kidnap him after Biology, once again pulling him into "their" bathroom for a fierce, bone-crushing hug. There's no conversation after it though, she simply shrugs, briefly latches on him again and leaves him there. However unusually comforting he finds her behavior, he still gets the increasing feeling that another lecture from her is just around the corner.<p>

In the meantime, he holds on, like he said, the best he can. Frankly, not all that well, blank and listless becomes a common mood of his. It's just kind of hard to maintain good spirits when everywhere he looks, Quinn and Finn are there. In most of his classes, exchanging coy looks. In the hallways, hands grazing. In Glee club, rehearsing together. They don't really hide their renewed relationship, and while pretty much everybody empathizes, nobody really does anything. He reasons that he has to pull himself out of his funk. Easier said than done. Especially when the lovebirds sing their first duet in front of the group, a syrupy ballad performed with handholding and lovey-dovey expressions. It's more than he can take and he leaves in the middle of it, painfully aware of the pitiful looks he causes. Inside, he's starting to guess that it was just what Santana was waiting for, a breaking point to be reached.

Sure enough, she shows up at his door that very evening, with her usual impatient air plastered on (although it might be justified this time, given that it took him a while to answer and it raining cats and dogs). He's not all that surprised, save for the fact that he never gave her his address… She pointedly hands him her iPod and he obeys, sliding the ear buds in place and tapping the play icon.

_Here's the day you hoped would never come  
>Don't feed me violins<br>Just run with me through rows of speeding cars.  
>The papercuts, the cheating lovers<br>The coffee's never strong enough  
>I know you think it's more than just bad luck<em>

_There there baby_  
><em>It's just textbook stuff<em>  
><em>It's in the A-B-C of growing up<em>  
><em>Now, now darling<em>  
><em>Oh don't lose your head<em>  
><em>Cause none of us were angels<em>  
><em>And you know I love you yeah<em>

A dry chuckle is his response, and she smiles accordingly. "So, you're gonna let me in or I'm to melt on your porch?" she asks.

"Sure, come in. I could use some company while babysitting." he says, stepping aside. "Care to tell me how you found out where I live?" he asks merrily.

"I'm Santana Lopez. I know shit, period." she snapped back. She looks away for a second, shakes her head. After a sigh, she goes on. "Didn't mean it that way. Can you get me something to dry off please? I don't wanna drown the place."

"Of course." he replies. Turning around, he sees an inquisitive face peeking around the corner of the hallway.

"Who's that Sammy?" Stacy asks, stepping a bit closer to examine the visitor. Sam, wide-eyed, rushes to her.

"Stace, what are you doing here? I thought you were playing with Steve!"

"He said he was turning to the dark side and that I can't play with him anymore since I'm a Jedi." she replies with a pout.

Sam kneels at her side, hugging her. "I'm sorry Stace. Well, let's see if we can't find a way to bring him back to the good side, OK?" The little girl nods, with a small smile lighting up her features. He looks up at Santana, who's watching the scene with a similar grin. "I'll be back in a sec." he tells her.

Actually, it's more like 10 minutes. It took a Yoda-quality, iron-clad speech to convince his brother to forego the ways of the Sith and it simply couldn't be rushed. Once the little knights are back on speaking terms, he wastes no time and runs to the bathroom to grab a towel. Back to the front door, he notices that Santana still waits, incredibly without looking pissed. Although she's sitting on the rug by now.

Sheepishly, he hands her the towel. "Sorry about that. They take Star Wars pretty seriously these days and I kinda have to respect it too." he explains.

"It's okay, that was sorta cute." She pushes herself back up and continues as if they hadn't been interrupted. "So I wanted to tell you a few things. Like maybe I should have hinted you about Quinn and Finn, instead of throwing it in your face."

He doesn't reply. His stare and silence must make her uncomfortable because she suddenly starts drying her face and hair vigorously. "Also, maybe that slap at Breadsticks wasn't really justified." The cloth flailing around her head clips her voice.

She runs it on her neck one last time before giving it back to a still mute Sam. He leans against the wall, toying with the damp towel. Stopping for a few seconds, she watches him do so.

"That's it, I guess." she says with a sigh. "FYI, that's as close to an apology as I've ever gone, so consider yourself lucky."

Sam chuckles and stands back up straight. Shaking his head in disbelief, he grabs her hand. "Thanks San. I appreciate it, really."

She's struggling a bit with kicking her shoes off when he says that. He tightens his grip to steady her. She glances straight at him for the first time since she's arrived, sees their hands clasped. She sends him a weird, uncertain smile, succeeds in taking of her boots with her free hand. Seconds later, it's Sam's turn to do the pulling, for once. Destination: his room.

* * *

><p>"What Kind Of Fool?"<p>

She looks up from her iPod, one eyebrow cocked. "Barbra, seriously? No Sam, just… No. You're not that questionnably gay."

Sighing, he continues rummaging through his playlist for a minute. "O.A.R.'s Shattered?" he offers.

"I don't know this one, play me some." He complies, watching her listen intently with lips pursed. She shakes her head after a few lines. "Mmm, better, but still not to the point. It has to feel like a slap to the face. This doesn't cut it."

"Does it have to?" he questions.

She throws her hands in the air, looking exasperated. "Duh! I mean, if you sing this one, you'll look like a puppy, begging for his master back. You won't be telling her that you're over her."

"But I 'm not." he confesses.

"She doesn't have to know that. Besides, if you tell yourself you're getting over her, it might actually help you making it true." Santana informs him.

He grunts in response, dubious. It wasn't as discreet as he hoped it to be and it sets her off. "Come on Trouty Mouth, quit pouting and moping around! You gots to call her out, ya know, make her face what she did to you!" Enthusiasm is making her hands fly around her like hummingbirds. She doesn't let him respond and goes back to dissecting her song collection. Soon enough, she's back on his case.

She jumps out of his bed (that she had commandeered the second she entered the room) and punches him excitedly on the shoulder. "Here, I got yours! It's still your style, except with a tad more _oomph_ to it." she announces.

Reluctantly, he spins his chair and his eyes dart up to her. She shows her music player, lets him see the song title and bounces back to her seat. "And I found mine too!" she adds, letting herself fall on the fluffy covers.

This time he looks up without being requesting to do so. He questions her with a simple, nonplussed look. She laughs whole-heartedly. "Of course, doofus! I wouldn't let you go to the trenches without an opening act. Trust me, I'll warm her up for ya!" She grins, flashing him her perfectly white teeth, before going back to her iPod.

_Oh shit._

* * *

><p>Santana is the kind of girl who follows through. No later than at the next Glee club practice, right at the beginning, she cuts off Mr. Schue's tirade and demands the stage. She puts on the music and just… <em>kills it<em>. She refused to tell him what she was going to sing, and the surprise equals only his delight when he recognizes the song (thanks to a 90's movie he's seen often, because otherwise it's totally not his style).

He has to admit, she does one hell of a job. Every detail is perfectly nailed, the contemptuous eyes, the regal air. The moves are what really do it. Her hips shimmy as fast as the tempo goes, and with every bitchy line a flicker of the hand comes up to insist on it. She's enjoying herself immensely too, it's plain to see. With her sparkling eyes and recurring smile, she's clearly having a blast.

At first, he, along with the rest of the Glee club, was a bit taken aback by the beat. They found it unusual to say the least, with good reason: nobody here does punk rock. It's a catchy song anyway, so they still quickly get into it, with clapping hands and bobbing heads. She overplays it, over-pronounces each and every line, putting on quite a show by basically miming several sentences.

After a while, he starts to notice something, something that many listeners miss. She goes further than just playing out the song. She adapts the lyrics too. Those targeted by this get it, so it's not in vain. It doesn't take much either, just switching some pronouns.

_Another love __**you**__ would abuse, no circumstances could excuse_.

With her pointing Quinn while singing, the message is clear, however brief.

_I know **you're** selfish, **you're** unkind._

_Sucker love, __**you**__ always find someone to bruise and leave behind_.

If you weren't familiar with the song, you could be none the wiser. The beat is fast and as usual, no one is really paying attention to the lyrics when Santana shakes it around.

But Sam knows it, and from her increasingly crimson face, so does Quinn. The message is received, loud and clear.

She squirms on her seat, keeps squeezing Finn's hand… Looks around the room as if the answer to her distress is somewhere in the room. Panic, stage 1.

He should feel upset, guilty. There are many feelings he should be having. The only one coming through is smug satisfaction.

Yep, seeing Santana putting it all out there, rubbing Quinn's face in her own betrayal, it's quite funny. And he feels justified, for the first time.

Santana finishes in a flourish and sits down with one last pirouette. Without any subtlety, she shoves him out of his seat.

"Your turn, Guppy." she chirps. Not even discreetly.

As he stands in front of everyone, as he adjusts his hold on his guitar, doubt, that insecure bitch, sneaks back. Suddenly he's breathing hard. _I'm not ready. I barely know the lyrics well enough._

Looking around, he shuffles around, for way too many seconds. The silence is not gonna get any lighter, that much he knows, yet he can't start. Until she gives him the push he needs.

"_I dare you."_ She mouths to him, shoots him an impish smile, almost negating it with the somewhat crude pucker she does next.

He scoffs, beaming. A wink in response and he starts strumming the chords. His voice has never sounded so strong before.

_Well, I never saw it coming, I should have started running  
>A long, long time ago<br>And I never thought I'd doubt you, I'm better off without you  
>More than you, more than you know<em>

_I'm slowly getting closure, I guess it's really over_  
><em>I'm finally getting better<em>  
><em>And now I'm picking up the pieces, spending all of these years<em>  
><em>Putting my heart back together<em>

Every word gets easier to sing, every emotion becomes more transparent. _Holy shit, I'm totally selling it!_ He grows ever more confident and his voice soars. Towards the end, he's putting what can only be described as sass in his performance, standing in front of a devastated Quinn, _serenading_ her.

_'Cause the day I thought I'd never get through_  
><em>I got over you<em>

_Well, I'm putting my heart back together  
>'Cause I got over you and I got over you<br>And I got over you_

One last chord and he stops, breathless, smiling.

Relieved.

Santana is on her feet in an instant, applauding wildly. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about Malibu!" she cries. She's the only one that enthusiastic. Puck, Kurt, Brittany are also clapping their hands, in a much tamer rhythm though. The rest are quite less responsive and exchanging glances in various degree of discomfort.

Somehow, he doesn't even notice, or care rather.

"OK kids… Sam, nice show. Santana, that's enough, you can stop now." Schuester, always the buzzkill.

"Mr. Schue…"

Will raises a hand to silence her. "No, Santana, it's time to start practicing. I welcome any impromptu numbers, whatever keeps your motivation up but we still have a set list to plan and rehearse. Now…"

That's the extent of what Sam hears. It took him the first 2 sentences to get out of his guitar belt, to grasp a still-cheering Santana and to march out of the choir room. It's absolutely not his style. He's being self-centered, impolite. He loves it.

"No way I'm letting Schuester ruin this." he explains over his shoulder to a dumbfounded Santana.

Stopping abruptly, he feels her bumps into his back. He turns and wounds his arms around her neck. "Thank you." he says softly, lips pressed against her ear. "I would have never been able to do it without you." he confesses, his voice getting less stable. "Wouldn't even have had the idea in the first place!" he adds in a lighter tone.

She chuckles, awkwardly stiff in his embrace. "No problema, Blondie." She suddenly relaxes, hugs him just as strongly. "You did me proud out there, papi."

He pulls away, smiling. "Good to know." A good, comfortable pause follows, as they look happily into each other's eyes.

One good thing laid to rest. _Time to take care of that other thing…_ he muses.

"Now that my case is over, what are we gonna do about you and Brittany?" he asks swiftly.

Her smile vanishes instantly. "Wh-What? How…" she rambles. Which just makes him laugh whole-heartedly, and he swings his arm around her shoulders in a comforting gesture.

Once more, he's the one leading. It's her turn to stumble and try to copy his pace as he pulls her towards the exit. He's more than glad, he's jubilant.

"Come on, I'll help you work it out. Tonight, you dine at La Casa Evans!"

**A/N: Songs used, in order: _Iridescent_ by Linkin Park, _Broken_ by Lifehouse, _Speeding Cars_ by Imogen Heap, _Every You Every Me_ by Placebo and _Over You_ by Daughtry.**


End file.
